by Darren Hale
Eduardo was dead…
The news had been greeted by a guilty silence. Except for Angus, though, ‘so how come you were gone so long?’ was all he’d said.
Three others had the disease, she’d explained.
Angus had grunted a ‘good’, while Rufus had observed that the disease was spreading, and was not as enthusiastic about wishing their demise, having learnt that the first of the new victims was Enrique, the leader of those holding them hostage.
‘So what?’ had been Angus’s eloquent response.
‘So, what if, in his fevered ramblings, he decides to have away with us?’ Rufus had said.
And Angus had grunted again.
When pressed, she’d then told them about the two victims: two young men who’d been suffering from stomach cramps and diarrhoea that they had, until then, attributed their symptoms to an undercooked curassow – one of Arno’s kills reportedly…
‘The infection’s spreading?’ Angus observed.
Catherine nodded. ‘It would appear so…’
‘Good… Then I hope it gets every last one of those bastards,’ Angus moaned. And for perhaps the first time, his malign sentiment was not met with any form of reprimand.
Of course she hadn’t told them anything of the other six cases, some of which had begun to manifest only the mildest of symptoms, having swallowed the water from the flask…
‘And the Lord said to Moses, ‘Take a handful of ashes from the fire and cast them into the air in front of the king. They will spread out like a fine dust across the lands of Egypt and everywhere they will produce boils that become open sores on the people and the animals…’ said Rufus pensively.
“Thus saith the Lord God of the Hebrews, let my people go…’ Marina intoned.
Rufus turned to look at Marina.
And everyone else turned to stare at Rufus.
‘Hey, don’t look so surprised, I did go to Sunday school,’ Marina protested.
‘And you – what’s your excuse?’ said Angus grumpily, directing his question in Rufus direction.
But Carmen answered first. ‘Exodus 9:8…’
Angus looked at her, incredulous. ‘Did everyone here go to church, except me?’
‘Yes sweety – everyone except you,’ said Marina.
‘Okay… But why has everyone turned religious on me? Or is my predicament more dire than I’ve been led to believe?’
‘The plague of boils…’ said Carmen thoughtfully. ‘There are many people who believe that the sixth plague, documented in Exodus, was in fact Anthrax,’ she explained.
‘Exodus – as in Moses?’ Catherine asked.
‘The one and only…’
‘It’s all beginning to make some kind of sense…’ said Rufus wistfully.
‘I think you might need to explain yourself dear,’ said Marina, prompting him with an amorous dig in the ribs.
‘The stela – the queen…’
Marina gave him another dig. ‘And try to make sense while you’re doing it.’
Rufus took a moment to compose his thoughts before opening his mouth once more. The second dig had been harder than the first, and he was, perhaps, fearing a third.
‘Thanks to Juliet’s shrewd observation of the stars, and the information I’ve gleaned from the stela, we can fairly accurately date this place to about two thousand years BC…’ He said hesitantly. ‘And thanks to Carmen’s studies… We know that the inhabitants here, like the Olmecs, resembled the indigenous populations of North Africa.’
‘We also know that these people had a good deal in common with the ancient Egyptians…’ Marina observed. ‘And that, according to the professor, it’s conceivable these people migrated here across the sea.’
‘All the way into the middle of the Amazon jungle?’ said Carmen cynically. Much as she might have wanted to have taken credit for proposing the theory in the first place, she did not wish to endorse any theory the professor had put his name to.
‘They may have drawn some analogy between the Amazon and the Nile,’ said the professor, who had thus far remained silent. ‘Their civilisation was, after all, centred around the river.
Carmen rolled her eyes.
‘Anyway…’ Rufus continued. ‘What if that exodus really was – The Exodus.’
‘Except that, unless I’m very much mistaken, we’ve missed Moses birthday by a good five hundred years or more,’ said Marina thoughtfully.
‘I thought you were supposed to be on my side,’ said Rufus, with feigned indignation.
‘I am dear,’ she assured him, without conviction.
‘Though not according to the Leiden scroll…’ Carmen mused.
‘The what?’ asked Catherine innocently.
‘The Leiden scroll is one of the Dead Sea scrolls – currently the property of the Leiden University in the Netherlands. According to best estimates, it was written around about 2000BC, and contains passages that bear a striking resemblance to those mentioned in Exodus… Though it still leaves us with the question of how they managed to build a magnificent city in the middle of the jungle, before dying of a plague they allegedly brought along with them from Egypt…’
‘Well, let us hope that it is the sixth plague,’ said Marina solemnly. ‘And that it is once again God’s plan to deliver his servants from captivity…’
46
Sunday 22nd October:
‘So, how did you get into the business of drugs and guns?’
Dr Silvia Lopez was nervous. And the more nervous she became, the more questions she asked. And the more ill-considered those questions became.
Ordinarily, this weakness would have been hard to discern. She was a strong and confident woman and not easily rattled. Except for the fact that she did not like flying.
Especially when the vehicle in which she was flying was a small single-engined aircraft that had clearly endured more hardship than she had, racing above the tree-tops with a man whose face was as emotionless and implacable as a lump of rock, and who had not uttered any more than a handful of words in the entire trip.
And then there was their cargo…
A half-dozen or more crates, each the size of a large suitcase.
She’d not been briefed as to what they might contain, but given the professional leanings of her employer, Manuel Rodriguez, she was sure she wouldn’t approve. Though her current association might have suggested otherwise, Silvia Lopez considered herself a principled and moraled woman, born and raised in a country where such virtues could be interpreted somewhat flexibly. Their elected head of state had, after all, once been a member of the country’s leading revolutionary group – FARC: the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia.
‘More to the point, how does a nice young lady like you end up working for a man like Manuel?’
‘I don’t “work” for Manuel. I contract my services from time to time,’ she said, her fingers wrapped tightly around the leather strap next to her head. ‘I work for the National Museum in Bogota as an archaeologist and anthropologist with a specialist interest in ancient Mayan and Incan artefacts.’ Her eyes looked right past him as she spoke. She could not drag them away from the window positioned just a few inches to the left of his head, through which she could see trees rushing past at impossible speed.
The aircraft jounced, as if hitting a bump in the road.
Silvia’s knuckles turned white as she fought to hold on to the strap, though Nathan gave no indication that he’d noticed. ‘You do know he’s not planning on sending anything he recovers to a museum, don’t you?’ he said.
‘Yes...’ In that moment, the muscles in her face had become as tight as her hand. ‘Personally, I find the ransacking of ancient sites and the trading of historical artefacts to be abhorrent, though it’s not something that I have, or will ever have, any power to control. These treasures you seek are nothing more than precious baubles to a man like Manuel – a fanciful collection used to showcase his money and his power. But he cares for them well, and keeps t
hem in one place, which is the best I could hope for. They will likely never see the inside of a museum, though if not for these compromises I make, their story would be lost forever.’
The aircraft bounced again. More of a “sinkhole” this time than a “bump in the road”.
‘Dammit, this thing has wings, why can’t it fly any higher!’ she exclaimed petulantly.
The plane turned, its wingtip dropping quite unexpectedly towards the trees as it started to lose height.
‘Ladies and gents, if you’d please make sure your tray tables are stowed and your seats are returned to the upright position, it looks like we are coming in for a landing…’ Nathan’s grin was unfathomable and she was left to wonder what might have provoked his comment. Had he been mocking her for the fear that her body had in that moment announced in every way imaginable, or the pilot who had failed to warn them about the sudden series of violent manoeuvres? There was, after all, no sign of an airfield upon which they might have been about to land.
Her gaze went past him and on to the window next to his head, which, given the plane’s steep inclination, now looked directly onto trees that were not as far away as she might have hoped: a scar torn through the surrounding vegetation.
And then it occurred to her…
And, though such an act might have seemed impossible, she gripped the strap until her fingers seemed fit to break.
The wing dipped further as the plane tightened its turn, giving the impression that it might simply slip from the sky, while the panorama of trees rotated until the scar was once again ahead of them. And then it levelled out, her heart rising into her throat in that odd moment when the plane seemed to both rise and fall at the same time, its nose turning towards the sky as it shed both height and speed.
The clouds raced skyward as the trees climbed to meet them…
A rush of green…
A jarring bump.
A bounce.
A squeal of metal.
The sound of something broken…
And then the engine roared loudly and the seatbelt bit into her chest.
The plane yawed as its brakes bit hard, and then, responding to the pilot’s coercions, corrected itself before coming to a stop a few scant metres from the treeline.
Nathan chuckled to himself as if amused by the fact they were still alive. He then unclipped his belt and got to his feet. ‘Need any help with that?’ he said, reaching for her belt.
Though dazed, Dr Lopez still had the presence of mind to slap his hand away. ‘I’m sure I can manage!’
Nathan chuckled some more as he switched his attention to the DHC-3’s enlarged cargo door and swung it open to admit a gust of warm, sticky air. He then jumped from the plane, his knees flexing like hydraulic pistons as they absorbed the impact of his landing. There had been a ladder, but for some reason he’d chosen not to use it.
Dr Lopez had by this time extricated herself from her seat and was standing in the doorway, eyeing the armed men who were now approaching them.
‘Ramon not here to meet us in person?’ said Nathan, greeting the closest of them.
‘No – he will be joining us later,’ the soldier replied.
‘Not too much later, I hope… We have business to conduct.’
The soldier shrugged. ‘They tell me he will be here this evening.’
‘So… You’re not in charge?’
‘Enrique is in charge, but he is otherwise disposed… He has instructed that I take you to the camp so you can inspect the artefacts. He will then be happy to hear your offer.’
Nathan held his hand out to the doctor and helped her down the steps. There was no point in arguing with the soldier, he was just a messenger, and Nathan would be quick to inform Enrique of his displeasure should the shipment fail to arrive as promised. In the meantime, they would inspect the artefacts to see if they were indeed the treasures they’d been promised.
47
Sunday 22nd October:
‘So, this stuff’s valuable then? The gold – I get it. But this?’
Nathan had been manhandling a dumpy clay figurine of what he could only assume was a lactating woman holding a baby to her breast – something a five-year-old could have made in kindergarten. Doctor Lopez had somehow appeared more interested in these last crates, than the ones containing items whose value even he could have determined. Gold was gold…
The doctor carefully lifted it from his hands and laid it back in the crate from which he’d so casually plucked it. ‘Yes Mr Eades – they are valuable… Priceless in fact. So please be careful.’
He raised an eyebrow sceptically. ‘You’re telling me this crap… is worth money?’
‘No Mr Eades,’ she said, adding the tolerant and resigned sigh a mother might have bestowed upon an inquisitive child. ‘I said they are priceless. You cannot attach a monetary value to them.’
He frowned. ‘So why would anyone want them?’
‘Because they are remarkable… Quite remarkable,’ she said as she carefully examined another worthless-looking lump of clay into which someone had carved the features of a man, her lips pursed in a thoughtful but unconsciously provocative way. ‘You see, Mr Eades… these works of art are quite unlike anything I have ever seen before, and I imagine, quite unlike anything I will ever see again. These pieces of “crap” are allegedly four thousand years old and pre-date the Olmecs, the oldest known Mesoamerican civilisation, by a few hundred years at least…’
‘And that makes them valuable?’ he asked cynically.
‘As far as the archaeological fraternity is concerned, this find is truly amazing and would likely change everything we currently think we know about the earliest civilised cultures of Central and South America…’
‘You don’t sound very happy about it,’ Nathan observed. When it came to women, he was not usually that intuitive, but he had a keen ear for those vocal tensions that might have warned that trouble was on its way.
Doctor Lopez carefully returned the figure to its crate, her fingers tightening in a reflex he recognised so well… She was angry and making every effort to hide it. ‘No Mr Eades – I’m not happy about it. Thanks to our mutual employer, these treasures will likely never be seen again, and any clues pertaining to their origins will be lost for ever.’
‘So, why do it? Why help him?’
‘Because I will likely be the only one in the academic community to ever know of their existence, and all I can hope for is a little time to record the details. Speaking of which… I think it’s time we saw where these came from.’
Nathan nodded to one of the men standing just outside the tent and informed him of their wishes.
The man acknowledged with a simple ‘sim senhor’ and gesticulated with his rifle, inviting them to follow.
******
‘This is the place – you’re sure?’ Nathan asked sceptically, once they’d arrived at wherever it was their guide had been taking them. In his imagination he’d sketched something more dramatic than this crude clearing, which was at most a hundred feet across and surrounded a gaping hole that exhaled odours of dank decay.
His escort nodded and pointed to the hole. ‘Sim senhor. This is the place.’
Dr Lopez required little convincing. She hurried to the slab-like stone that had once covered the hole, with an enthusiasm that showed little restraint.
‘So, this is it… Their big find?’ Nathan asked.
‘Yes – this is it…’ she affirmed, as she hastened to take notes on a small notepad she’d produced from the pocket of her jeans, furiously recording as much as she could in the time they had available. Her phone had been taken from her before boarding the plane and she had not been permitted to carry anything more threatening than this pad of paper, and a pencil.
Having satisfied some of her professional instincts, she pocketed the pad and withdrew a penlight. Archaeologists were not naturally impatient people, and she, like any other colleague, had spent countless hours meticulously dusting the mud from s
omething as humble as a pottery shard and documenting the fact in the tiniest detail, nevertheless, her excitement was beyond control. ‘Are you coming?’ she asked.
Showing as much restraint as was possible, she descended past skeletons slouched in parodies of their final moments, her enthusiasm tempered with a healthy respect for the slime-like mud that threatened to upend her.
Then, upon reaching the bottom, she hesitated just long enough for her eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, her breath curling like ripples upon a pool of torchlight framed within the doorway ahead of her.
The air was cold.
And smelt of age…
Slowly… Cautiously… She entered the room, as if somehow stepping through a gate into another time.
Nathan followed, grunting, and huffing his displeasure, as she paused to take notes again, though these unsubtle prompts did nothing to hasten her on her way. Stripped of any obvious wealth, the room held no appeal to him, though, having spied the elaborate pictures painted on the walls, he imagined that she might be invested in her scribblings for quite some time.
But to his relief, he was wrong, and realising that there was perhaps too much to document, she moved on through the breach ahead of them; a ragged tear that had clearly been fashioned with intent.
Dropping to her hands and knees, she wiggled into the hole, her slender pen torch sending spectres of light flitting ahead of her.
******
Martin could smell the faintest hint of perfume, diluted as it had been through sweat and excursion and scattered by subtle shifts in the breeze. The owner was either witless or not inclined towards stealth. The subtlest of scents, let alone perfumes and tobacco smoke, were not difficult to discern in a place that lay as far as conceivably possible from human pollution.
‘This is the place – you’re sure?’
The voice was disappointed.
Martin was sure that he could discern an American accent, subtle though it was, though an infusion of local dialects had softened the vowels and removed some of the hard-edged consonants. The speaker had clearly spent more than a few years outside of their homeland, and that surely meant only one thing… The man was a mercenary, and not to be underestimated.